


Horses of Iron

by KeeperOfTheEternalFlame



Series: In The Town of Excelsior Springs [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1870s Railroad!AU, And For Gosh Sakes Watch Your Language, Awesome Carol Danvers, Awesome Pepper Potts, Black female reader - Freeform, Black!Reader - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes...Eventually Gets A Hug, F/M, Found Family, Harley Keener's Sister gets a name, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, Interracial relationships, Period-Typical Racism, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has The Best Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperOfTheEternalFlame/pseuds/KeeperOfTheEternalFlame
Summary: After the Civil War, Eve found herself in the melting pot town of Excelsior Springs. Juneteenth may have set her free, but she still bears the scars of the slavery she escaped years ago. In 1871, among misfits, outcasts, immigrants, and railroad tycoons, she chooses to try and start a real life. It is there that she meets a townsman by the name of James Barnes, who finds himself instantly enamored by her. No stranger to trauma and hardship himself, he sets out to understand Eve and the harsh world she comes from. But opening her heart to him and this strange little town feels like a betrayal--how can she possibly move forward when the past deserves recompense?





	Horses of Iron

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Ao3 readers! Thank you for checking out this fic! I'm currently juggling several projects, but in honor of Juneteenth, I wanted to make sure I got the prologue and first short chapter up. Chapter-specific warnings will be posted individually, but I'm reiterating a general warning for referenced past racism and abuse because...well, slavery. So. That's to be expected. This fic is meant to help bring into the public eye aspects of Black womanhood that emerged during slavery--and that We still feel today--and I hope everyone's down to explore what that means and looks like from my perspective. Please comment, especially if you have personal experiences or stories you feel would help contribute to the story I want to tell here! Thank you, and happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Updated 1-13-2020*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! So, originally, this story was to be a second-person narrative, but after a lot of struggling with characterization in the second-person format--and after my successes with original characters in my Jack Thompson pieces--I decided to change the perspective and the tense used. I hope this improves readability moving forward, as well as idea generation on my end. Thank you for reading!

**1871** ****

It was a normal day, as far as the early summer months went—glaring sun, just-under-blistering heat, the taste of grit ground between yellowed, weathered teeth. He squinted against the shimmering haze in search of the distant black dot, bound to be breaching the horizon any moment, but found nothing.

He heard it first. The sound carried across even still air with an unmistakeable and commanding resonance. The whistle was piercing, a desperate, imploring call to the brakeman. A phantom tingle shot through him at the reminder. He dug nails deep into his palm and it grounded him. The distant crack of the whip and the sound of the sheriff’s fiddle were drowned out entirely. Even as the echo itself faded, the ring of it stayed in his ears like some tangible thing nesting in his head.

He felt it next. The rumble of it from the platform was as much a bodily sensation as it was a noise. He let the vibrations tremble their way through the ties into the wooden boards then into his feet and up into the bones of his legs. He dared not close his eyes to drink in the sensation for fear he would forget where he was and begin shouting orders.

Even slowed to a near-stop, the engine car produced a current of wind as it passed, and he found himself enveloped in a broken cloud of translucent black dust. Squinting, he waved the smoke away to watch the coach and gondola cars pass by in their customary line, passengers hanging out the window. The train came to a stop with a hydraulic hiss at the platform.

Before a single soul could disembark, he turned on his heel. He weaved expertly through the crowd rushing towards the train to greet loved ones and visitors and weary travelers. With quick, sure strides, he descended the steps on the far side of the platform and headed back into town.

With his feet on solid ground, the vibrations abated and the haunting reverberation of the singing whistle finally silenced, James kicked at the loose rocks of the road as he trudged home.

* * *

**1872**

She gives the blackboard an extra wipe, clearing the last stubborn bits of chalk dust from its surface. A blissful breeze drifts in through the open window and skims sweat-sticky skin on the back of her neck.

It had been a good day—the kids had all been surprisingly engaged for a Friday afternoon with the weekend looming large but just beyond their reach. They were buzzing with that _almost summer_ energy, and while she would have predicted such excitement would be cause for less focus, the kids all seemed to believe that if they powered through their lessons, they would be able to get out early.

They won't, of course, but she's not about to question the gift of their full attention. She doesn’t get many free kindnesses from the universe. She’ll take the ones she can.

Footsteps echo nearby in the hall, and, seconds later, a strong Mississippi accent rings out into the space.

“What are you still doing here?”

She turns to find Carol leaning against the doorframe as she gestures to the building at large. Eve grins sheepishly in response, and Carol sighs, her exasperation playful but explicitly clear on her face and in her tone.

“Kids went home an hour ago and this room is hot as town square at high noon.”

“Just doing my job,” Eve replies with a small shrug. “Desks needed to be straightened, board needed to be cleaned. Wanna make sure the kids come back to the best learnin’ environment they can get. Besides,” she challenges, “you’re still here, too.”

Carol narrows her eyes briefly in lighthearted annoyance before making her way to her desk and perching on the edge of it. Her teal skirts rustle faintly as they lift at the ankles. “Well, ain’t nothing else needs to be straightened or cleaned here. And that ain’t your job in the first place, darling.” She gives Eve a pointed look. “Cleaning ain’t the reason I put you in this classroom, no matter what the ol’ fogies ‘round here try to tell you.” Her face grows defiant as she frowns. “Who cares what they think? They’re days from kicking the bucket anyway.”

Eve stifles a conspiratorial laugh in her sleeve then nods, dusting her hands on her beige skirt. “Alright, alright. I’ll be on my way, then.”

“Attagirl.” Carol slides off her desk and adjusts the pin that holds her loose curls behind her shoulders. She gathers the last few books from the desk’s surface and hands Eve her purse. “You wanna drop by a lil later tonight for supper? Monica and I could use the company. You know the house gets boring when it’s just the two of us rattlin’ around.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

Eve smiles congenially in response. “Thank you, Carol, but I’ve got some of Hank Pym’s snow peas canned in the pantry jus’ waiting to find their way into a soup. How about you and Monica come by tomorrow, and we can make that cobbler the two of you love so much?” she offers.

“Oh, a bargaining woman now, are we?” Carol wrinkles her nose and grins as Eve laughs. “Well, I suppose for Monica’s sake I can’t turn down dessert. We’ll come by a bit before sundown?”

“Count on it, Miss Danvers.” Carol levels a low intensity glare at the title before she let go of Eve’s hand. “Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.”

* * *

True to her word, as soon as Eve arrives home, she starts in on her soup. With no plans to leave her house again for the night, she pins her hair back further, flicks the gas stove to life, puts broth on to boil, and starts in on the chopping of vegetables. She hums as she works—an old tune her mom used to sing when she folded laundry in near darkness.

She has hands like her mother’s, long nimble fingers a deep, rich brown and wide pink palms. Eve’s are much nicer in that they haven’t been worked nearly as hard. Mama’s had always been cracked—sometimes bleeding—and yet somehow always gentle. So many had trusted those hands for so many things, everything from picking to repairs to seasoning to rocking children to sleep. But so few had appreciated the tenderness of those young but calloused hands.

Eve takes that call of recognition upon herself. She says a silent prayer of thanks for the sacrifices her mother made; the song she hums now is a hymn of worship for the life laid down to pave her way.

Dinner is a quiet affair, as usual, and, for a second, she does consider dropping by Carol’s house after all. Maybe Monica would want her hair done again in those careful braids Eve had become so adept at over the years. She smiles at the thought of Carol watching attentively over her shoulder, her hands in her own lap, mimicking Eve’s movements.

But at the prospect of fixing her own hair and wiping the heat of the kitchen from her face to look presentable again, she decides against it. With a full night of sleep ahead, there’s only a few short hours until she’ll see them, anyway.

So instead, she takes her time crossing between the kitchen and her quarters—washing up, changing into her nightclothes, and listening to the train through the open windows until the summer’s late sunset is dim enough to prompt the lighting of the oil lamp. She sits at the table and watches as the fireflies illuminate pinpricks of sky, each bug a closer echo of the faint stars above.

When at last the night holds nothing but darkness, the figures she’d watch traipse through the grass long-retired to their homes and the eventual mansions of dreams and rest, she rises from her chair and shuts the kitchen window. Practiced fingers lower the wick of the oil lamp until the flame extinguishes itself.

She crosses the breezeway to the bedroom and rests on top of her quilt-covered bed. The heat isn’t near so stifling up here as it had been in South Carolina. A part of her considers crawling under the blanket just to feel some semblance of familiarity.

But that would be ludicrous.

Those memories—for the most part—hadn’t been worth much anyway.

That night, sleep wanders out of her reach for a long time before finally finding its way into her arms.


End file.
